


Slow

by epochryphal



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Cutting, Other, POV Second Person, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epochryphal/pseuds/epochryphal





	Slow

Where the _fuck_ is it?

You’re scrabbling through your Box O’ Memorabilia, balancing all the boxes on top of it with one arm because you seriously cannot be assed to take them off properly, and hell, isn’t that part of it, feeling all their weight as you fumble around in the dark beneath them with your free hand all extra-ineffective like?

Across the room your phone buzzes. You grit your teeth and keep rummaging because goddammit, if you break to check it, you’ll never get back to this, and that’ll be one more failure to chock up so next time’s worse.

But seriously, _where the fuck is it_?

All right, enough shuffling the contents around. You start pulling them out and laying them on the ground, eyes fixed on the space above your head. Still too easy to recognize them by feel. Some are just smaller boxes, thankfully, simple to remove and ignore except _shit_ , that one just spilled open. Fantastic. You shove construction paper and lollipops and doilies back in their container and hate yourself a little more when you glance down to make sure you got them all only to catch sight of a homemade card with a misshapen cutout of you on the front. Shoving the lid back on is a little rougher than it should be and the box sags for it; probably needs replacing.

Past-you is a fucking asshole.

Keep going, pulling out loose objects now, stuffed animals and dolls and broken eyeglasses and dead phones. The box is less than a quarter full now and you _still_ haven’t found it, even though you _know_ you just threw it in without trying to bury it last time. Right? Fuck, if your memory is lying to you now, too, that’s just. Great. Icing on a cake of dust and shit.

You almost don’t recognize it by touch. Have to look to be sure, and there it is, finally. You edge it out of its casing, checking for rust, blunting. Probably need a new one soon anyway; the instant it gets the slightest bit dull, it’s useless to you. You pretend it’s because you need precision, but the twist in your mouth knows it’s because you’re weak.

Everything goes back in the box of stupid memories, even less tidy than it was before but who gives a damn. You slip the lid back on, and your arm out from holding up the pile on top of it, and sit back on the floor, clutching your prize.

Time to check those messages.

You carry it over to your phone, rest it under your chin as you lean back against the wall and type a witty response to the @you in your notifications. While you’re writing you get a text, and you actually smile as you reply to it. A whole conversation springs up, meaningless but engaging, and between that and your ten minutes offline you have plenty to catch up on.

It fades, obviously, and you’re back to half an hour ago, except this time the weight on your chest has that extra ounce of do-something-about-it.

You’ll need rubbing alcohol, but at least that isn’t buried in a minefield.

Drag yourself upright, and head to the bathroom – the real, bathroom, not the decoy that’s part of the elaborate bullshit you feed everyone including yourself.

Halfway there and your stomach grumbles, distracting and empty. Dammit.

You grab the excuse of wanting no distractions from the main event and detour to the kitchen. Put a pot of water on the stove, throw in the noodles while it’s lukewarm, set the heat on high and then just stand there waiting. Accidentally start thinking about how to incorporate all this into your latest fanfiction. Briskly shake your head to dismiss how angsty and OOC that would be. Think irritably about method writing and its limitations when you never leave a single building.

Ramen’s boiling over already. Genius. Turn the stove off, half-drain the pot just tilting it over the sink, plop the remaining contents into the least disgusting bowl and pick the chopsticks that don’t have bits on them. Pour the flavoring packet on top and don’t even stir it in, just shovel noodles into your maw. They’re still a bit brittle which is more than appropriate.

Finish without thinking about anything else, which hey, that’s some sort of record, time for your reward! Leave the bowl on the counter and actual for-realsies head to the bathroom.

Cursory check and shit, there’s the last bottle of rubbing alcohol sitting in the overflowing trash bin. Hard to restock supplies when you never leave a single building, either. Should’ve requisitioned from the king a while ago, but. Well. You tighten your grip. It’s not like stealing from the royal coffers for personal use is _new_ to you. Can’t even say it wasn’t on purpose. But, like everything else, you can’t summon up the guts to fully commit to it.

Whatever. Here, this shelf has nail polish remover. You refuse to think about the scientific difference because what kind of scientist are you anyways? It’ll do. You also refuse to think about the last time you bothered to paint your nails. Or about how proper claws, and a proper attitude, would mean you didn’t need any of this.

Guts, yeah yeah, we’ve covered this.

You set your phone out of harm’s way and take it out. Slide your thumb with the plastic nub and feel each notch as it stutters out into the open air. Look again at the tip, wonder how many times it’s been, two or three, and how many it’ll take before it becomes immune to the slow presses and tracery you favor. Hope it’s enough for now.

Pop the cap off and stick it straight into the bottle. No spilling that way. Pull it out and wipe the excess liquid between two fingers, feel it evaporate leaving them dry and smelly. Recap and set aside and look at your phone.

As you set it to do-not-disturb, don’t let your fingers hesitate over the screen. Think for the twentieth time about calling like you’d promised, and don’t let it externalize. Try instead to remember what exactly the terms were this week – to call if you were thinking about it? If you were going to? If you already had? Just a text or an email, or had you said an actual phone call this time? You want to remember, not so you could worm through a bad-faith loophole, but so you could break your own rules in full cognizance.

Ha. The myth of total self-awareness.

Like everything else, you let it go.

You press the blade to the scaly wrinkled camouflage where wrist meets hand, only as much pressure as a pen to paper, and hiss at its bite.

Drag, slow, and already you’ve eased up and it’s barely anything at all. Frown, frustrated, re-angle and push til you can see the tip catch under the first layer of skin, translucent but visible, but again as soon as you move it loses grip and leaves less than a scratch.

You should be so good at this, an expert with a scalpel, at slicing people up.

Instead your skin is barely red, no clear line, and if you bend your wrist forward it’s totally invisible.

The key to slicing is to go fast. Like when you jostle the dish drying rack and a knife starts falling and you lash out to catch it and it rips down before you can think. Or when you have a sick patient who just wants to get it over with so you – never mind.

But fast means less controlled, less precise, your shapes twisting and veering off to the side, making unintentional side pictures. So you draw, slow, hard as you can stand, and it does nothing but sting. And you try to keep track of where you’ve been, never patient enough to wait for the lines to appear before continuing, with the same net result as doodling in white ink.

If you’re really lucky (and you never are), you’ll get to see blood tonight.

At least then, when you confess tomorrow, you’d have something to show for it.


End file.
